I could respect that. I had run through few bad patches that were just as well left behind and forgotten.
Mac looked up abruptly, and started polishing the bar near the shotgun's clip. A second later the door opened, and a Warden of the White Council came in.
He was a tall man, six feet and then some, and built with the solidity of an aging soldier. His lank hair had more grey in it than I remembered, and was drawn back into a ponytail. His face was narrow, almost pinched, and in the absence of any other expression, he looked like he had just taken a big bite of alum-sprinkled lemon rind. The Warden wore the grey cloak of his office over black fatigues. He carried a carved staff in his right hand, and bore a long-bladed sword on his left hip.
That much I had expected.
What surprised me was how battered he looked.
The Warden's cloak was ripped in several spots, and stained with what could have been mud, blood, and greenish motor oil. There were burn marks along the hem, and several raw, ragged holes in it that might have been the results of corrosive burns. His staff looked similarly nicked and stained-and the man himself looked like a boxer after a tough tenth round. He had bruises on one cheek. His nose had been broken sometime in the past several weeks. There was an ugly line of fresh, scarlet scar tissue running from his hairline to one eyebrow, and I could see white bandages through a hole in his jacket, over his left biceps.
For all of that, he came through the door like a man who knew he could clear out a bar full of marines if he needed to, and his eyes settled on me at once. His mouth twisted into an even more sour frown.
"Wizard Dresden," he said quietly.
"Warden Morgan," I responded. I figured Morgan would be along with any Wardens sent to Chicago. It was in his area of responsibility, and he didn't like me. He'd spent a few years following me around, hoping to catch me performing black magic so that he could execute me. It hadn't happened, and the Council had lifted my probation. I don't think he had ever forgiven me for that. He blamed me for other things too, I think, but I had always figured they were just excuses. Some people don't get along, ever. Morgan and I were two of them.
"McAnally," Morgan said to the tavern keeper.
"Donald," Mac replied.
Interesting. Hell, I'd been on the Council for years, and I hadn't known Morgan's first name.
"Dresden," Morgan said. "Have you checked for veils?"
"If I told you I had, you'd check it yourself anyway, Morgan," I said. "So I didn't bother."
"Of course you didn't," he said. I saw him frown a little in concentration, and then his eyes went a bit out of focus. He swept his gaze around the room, using his Sight, that odd, half-surreal sense that lets wizards observe the forces of magic moving around them.
A wizard's Sight cuts through all kinds of veils and spells meant to disguise and distract. It's a potent ability, but it comes at a price. Anything you see through the Sight stays with you, never fading in your memory, always right there for recall, as if you'd just seen it. You can't just forget something that you See. It's there for life.
Morgan didn't let his gaze linger too long near Mac or myself, and then he nodded to himself, and called out, "Clear."
The door opened and Warden Luccio came in. She was a solid old matriarch of a woman, as tall as most men and built like someone who did plenty of physical labor. Her hair was a solid shade of iron grey, cropped into a neat, military cut. She too wore a Warden's grey cloak, though she wore clothes suitable for hiking or camping beneath that: jeans, cotton, flannel, boots, all in muted tones of grey and brown. She too carried a staff and bore a sword at her side, though hers was a slender scimitar, light and elegant. Though not as worn as Morgan's, her gear also showed evidence of recent action.
"Warden Luccio," I said, and rose from the bar stool to incline my head to her.
"Wizard," she said quietly. I would have needed a high-speed camera to take in the details of her smile, but at least it was there. She nodded to me and then a little more deeply to Mac.
Behind her came three more Wardens. The first was a young man I vaguely recognized from a Council meeting a few years back. He had naturally tanned skin, dark hair, dark eyes, and sharp-edged, classically Spanish features. I remembered him in an apprentice's brown robe back then, and covering his mouth with one hand to conceal a grin inspired by some of my dialogue with the Council's bigwigs.
The brown robe was gone, and he looked like he had filled in a little since I'd first seen him, but good Lord, he was younger than Billy the werewolf. He wore a grey cloak that looked reasonably clean and not at all damaged, and black fatigues beneath that. A simple, straight sword hung from one hip, and was balanced on the other side by a holstered Glock and, I kid you not, three round fragmentation grenades. His staff was fairly new-looking, but there were enough dents and nicks in it to make me think he had kept things from hitting him with it, and he walked with a kind of arrogant confidence you see only in people who have not yet realized their own mortality.
"This is Warden Ramirez," Luccio said. "Ramirez, Dresden."
"How's it going?" Ramirez said, flashing me a grin.
I shrugged. "You know. Pretty much the usual."
Two more Wardens came in behind him, and they looked even younger and greener. Their cloaks and staves were immaculate, and they wore clothes and equipment so similar to Ramirez's that they qualified as a uniform. Luccio introduced the blocky young man with distant, haunted eyes as Kowalski. The sweet-faced young Asian girl's name was Yoshimo.
I limped over to Luccio and nodded at the tables Mac had set up. "I hope there's room enough. When are the other Wardens arriving?"
Luccio fixed me with a quiet, weary gaze. Then she drew her hands from beneath her cloak and held out a folded bundle wrapped in brown paper, offering it to me. "Take it."
I took the bundle and unwrapped it.
It was a folded grey cloak.
"Put it on," said Luccio in her quiet, steady voice. "And then every available Warden will be here."
Chapter Thirty-one
I stared at Luccio for a second. "That's a joke," I said. "Right?"
She gave me a brief, bitter smile. "Master McAnally," she said to Mac. "I think we could use a round. Do you have anything decent to drink?"
Mac grunted and said, "Got a new dark."
"Is it worth drinking?" Luccio asked. She sounded tired, but there was a teasing tone to her voice.
Mac glowered at her in answer, and she gave him a smile that was part challenge and part apology, and took a seat at one of the tables. She gestured at the table and said, "Wardens, please join me."
Morgan took the seat to Luccio's right, and the look he gave me could have burned holes in sheet metal. I did what I always did when Morgan did that: I eyed him right back, then dismissed him as if he weren't even there. I pulled out the chair opposite Luccio and sat. The two youngest Wardens sat down, but Ramirez stayed standing until Mac had brought over bottles of his dark ale and left them on the table. He headed back over to the bar.
Ramirez glanced at Luccio, and she nodded. "Close the circle, please, Warden."
The young man drew a piece of chalk from his pocket, and quickly drew a heavy line on the floor all the way around the table. He finished the circle, then touched it lightly with the forefinger of his right hand and spoke a quiet word. I felt a flicker of his will as he released a tiny bit of power into the circle. The circle closed around us in a sudden, silent tension, raising a thin barrier around us that was almost entirely impregnable to magical forces. If anyone had been trying to spy on the meeting with magic, the circle would prevent it. If anyone had left some kind of listening device nearby, the magic-saturated air within the circle would be certain to fry it within a minute.
Ramirez nodded to himself and then reversed the last open chair at the table and straddled it, resting one arm on the back. Morgan slid him the last bottle of ale, and he took it in one hand.
